


The Great Game of Fate

by Trishtim



Series: The Becoming of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 18th Century, BAMF John Watson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Other, POV John Watson, Pining, Sherlock is a Brat, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27589307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trishtim/pseuds/Trishtim
Summary: A middle-aged soldier comes back to Victorian-era London as medical lecturer in a medical university.Considering what life will be like teaching and lecturing his lessons, cutting and ripping patients open and questioning the how's and why's of the subject's sudden doom to his students. An incident that involves a stray young boy wandering the grounds of University of London fins his way to his classroom, curiosity strikes and the young one's world starts to spin and break into something new, and into the making to who he is now today.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Becoming of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016779
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also available in Wattpad (where I'm much more active): 
> 
> I appreciate constructive criticism about grammar, comma usage and whatnot, especially when English is not my first language! Thank you!

_Tick-tick, tick-tick._

_Tick-tick, tick-tick._

The clock bit on the surrounding tense silence with an unusual twitch.

The operating theater was cramped with curious students, huddling over the subject despite his instructions.

He could feel the twitch of the clock throbbing louder and louder by the second near his ear, and they expected him to handle this for hours on and end and perhaps for another good four years.

He smiled at impressionable old dean of the college on they're first meeting, "Anything for the university and as long as I'm getting paid Sir."

His smile was prudent but, he knew it could've been wider if it weren't for formalities' sake; although funnily enough the dean let out a chuckle that reddened his pale wrinkled face.

His tufty white whiskers seemed to turn up in humor, and his lithe form bending even more forward to let out a few more laughs. And like the lingering chill of the operating theater his hand grasps on to his right shoulder for support, he is reminded of the unforgiving climate of London and that he was indeed back home.

"You Dr. Watson are a breath of fresh air, not a lot of professors here engage in humor as you can observe. In fact I haven't laugh wholeheartedly in a while; too much exposure to the dead, and talking about it does deteriorate a good amount of your sanity."

He watches his face grow smooth and sneering, "I can't obviously say so for your case and comparing it with mine, perhaps my colleagues aren't that amiable as they seem."

He hummed in reply, stiffened and cautious by the moss that he had to graciously regain his balance from a few times on the corners of the hallway that overlooked the courtyard that was wide enough to occupy its thousands of students. 

While the dean reverently opened about his experience of being a professor in the university before becoming a dean, its students over the years, and how the university although it was hard to admit. Is now a victim of the decreasing support and funding due to the impact of the war and its sudden demand for health care providers that could aid in the war, the motto and priority has since been about the quality of education rather than the comfort and beauty it once had and was known for.

"I'm getting old as well doctor, I do apologize about might sentiments. I do hope in hundred years or so another our university will find its footing."

"No, no, it's alright I'd like to apologize about my humour as well. I didn't take into consideration the actual situation of the university."

The dean held his hands up, "No worries, we have enough to spare anyways." His kind smile warmed the embarrassment he felt pool in his stomach.

"Ah, you know how London is doctor. I've had enough passive-aggressive interactions and people that just want something out of you pockets with their fanciful conversations and earnest smiles! Who could ever point out slanderer and the innocent nowadays?"

"The dreariness of our personalities linked with the weather is seemingly innate is it not?"

The dean tutted, "Hah! What an amusing observation, I'm rather glad I set my tea to side once I heard of young man from abroad coming to our university looking for a position! I swore I could sense the potential and pleasantness that you could bring to this place despite the regulations and the uncertainty we have with accepting applicants, it's falling apart you know! Theoretically of course."

"The growing moss around here could be the new attraction I can say, and most of all I thank you Sir; you humble me Sir and I could never think of a better university to apply to."

He let out chuckle that resonated heartily, a complete opposing energy to the trickling rainwater that drenched the wooden doors each room had, the windows although clean was gathering mildew on its corners. The trees and plants that decorated the open yard according to the dean hasn't been finished in months and cautioned the young the doctor if any curious specie were to be found could be reportedly immediately to the him.

"Don't worry it's not exactly my job to preserve them, the 'other' department wants them alive for observations."

"Interesting what students are up to nowadays."

"Ah! I don't mind as much as my peers, I enjoy discovery and knowing more about the unknown."

"If I only knew, I could've gone here years ago for that very reason rather than to war."

Only then that the dean lowered his proud smile, overcome with a question the doctor already knew he would ask. Though he was kind enough to be polite and casual with his tone, rather than pitiful; "I hope you don't mind me asking, but am I legible enough to be in the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers? Perhaps I'd ask first about what your experience is being in a regiment or pardon me a infantry?"

He knew he couldn't stay long enough in London, wars never end unless enough were hurt.

_Tick-tick, tick-tick._

It was still difficult adjusting to sedentary day to day life, even though being sent in back and forth to London and the heat. Cities and villages were similar to some extent, but the bliss of nothing to worry about in London made him uneasy.

He sets down the forceps on a tray beside him and opens his hand outward, "Hand me the scalpel."

_There are no enemies here John, no bombs, no camps that will be terrorized; but rather, taxes, getting a wife, and getting eight hours of rest._

He wiped the sweat forming on his forehead, and the strand of hair that he has slicked back over and over again. The thought still lingered nevertheless, the worrying and jarring noise that damned clock was making, maybe it was some sort of delusion the place was sinking into him the delusion too that cast upon the students who come in and come by the place.

Dr. John Watson is a confident man both in skills and ego, who was just easily affected by other's emotions. The room definitely reeked of anxiety, confusion, unease that in turn tested his patience.

"Focus gentlemen, focus at the procedure."

"Sir, let me." A student rushed in and held the tray that was far our of reach and he thanked the student without lifting his eyes to look at him.

Yet he felt that perhaps today a little gleam of hope from the rare sighting of the sun, the yellow hue and brightness that is piercing through the window lightening up the grey corners of the the classroom. And maybe today with his spare energy from getting a full night's rest and good company, he could at least share his vigor and alter the mood from the murky rains and the pale snowstorms over the past few months.

"Kind Sir, have ever wondered what might be the cause of this gentleman's disease that has led to this atrocious severity?"

The boy who wasn't quite yet the gentleman trailed his eyes all over the large gaping open incision that was unraveled by the doctor, it stared back and he could only stammer in reply.

"I-I'm not entirely sure Sir, I'm just here to observe."

The doctor lifted his head to look at the boy, "It won't hurt to try, maybe our audience might get inspired, to perhaps _participate_ a little as students enrolled in this course? What do you think Mr.?"

The doctor looked at the tray and gestured him to set it down where it was originally placed, and back at the state of the boy's unruly curls. "Your hair boy, push some of it to sides for now."

The boy's ears the weren't visible reddened as he pushed it back his ears, setting the tray down quickly but neatly. "Oh it's Holmes, I'm sorry Sir."

The doctor didn't respond and went back to examining his work and the cadaver, instinctively reaching out for the instruments that he need.

An older boy with neatly combed hair waved his hands around to catch the younger boy's attention, whispering and nudging himself through the crowd to make way, "Sherlock! Get down from there, I'm late for my classes please!"

The boy tried hard to not notice his older brother's protests and smile sheepishly at the state that he couldn't get himself out of, the two of them knew that after these student's anatomy and pathophysiology class. A long apology speech was in the making in the older Holmes' mind, "I humbly apologize about the damage and disturbance of Mr. Sherlock Homes, my younger brother which I am speaking for because he is utterly incapable of doing so and to recognize embarrassment."

It always had to occur to situations like this, it was like a chronic disease that infected his ego and fed his amusement for having an audience.

_God save the Queen and Mr. Holmes, the younger._


	2. Two

Milliseconds before another disaster started cascade right before his sight, the older Holmes' gaze focused and still at the very pupils of his younger brother's eyes. Unable to grasp the intention he had in mind but knew he couldn't stop him he mutters, "Truly, may God bless your soul dear brother. For I can't help you out of this one." 

Knowing the dull sensation of a thousand knives from his brother's stare, he smirks at him mischievously. A boyish aura beaming around him that often caused and underestimation on what his exact motivations and age was, a vain but not doubt the easiest way to run free from his crimes without any reprehension.

The doctor sets aside all of the instruments, leans on the table and looks at him questioningly, "Well? Mr. Holmes?"

His gaze struck him suddenly, his confident answer wavered as he stuttered it out if his mouth unintentionally, "Th-the,"

Sherlock brought his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat, "The cause of it all usually stems from his lifestyle and-"

The doctor closed his eyes and faced the other way as if to dismiss him, "My apologies, a habit of mine do continue."

A bitter taste filled his own palette and Sherlock could now feel the fifty or more eyes of students that stared at him with jealousy and judgement, it downed out his brother's stare now that he realized was of worry.

_"How embarrassing, how did he get here anyway?"_

_"Who is he? And why does he get to be up there?"_

_"The doctor is just probably giving this one a proper lesson. Bargin' in here like he has an experience of a surgeon?"_

He could hear their thoughts out loud or maybe they were exactly saying it to his face, it clouded and deafened his concentration. His knees felt cold and he could feel his heart hitch up to his throat, threatening to leap out and never return.

The doctor walked towards him and held him by the wrist to pull him by his side and to take a closer look at the cadaver, "Don't let your anxiety overcome your senses, if this person were alive they'd be losing blood quicker than you'll ever imagine. And I need your insight now because we can't perform the surgery if we aren't aware of any allergies and history of what not, give me your _deduction_."

The doctor's eyes held what he thought he'd never see someone ever give him in a long while, it held trust and genuine interest that it almost made him feel remorse for barging in the classroom uninvited. He couldn't excuse himself now and splutter out apologies for coming in his classroom because he wanted to know if he could outsmart the dozing class he had, full of students who were older than him but considerably mindless and not fit for the kind of level he was in.

Sherlock heard his own strained gulp and let his pride waver at sudden sense of safety around the stranger, "Like I said, lifestyle. But then I can never be too sure, his obesity might be due to a disease either hereditary or-or, uh, was formed because or certain habits. From what I see, to get a severe organ malformation and to live- uh how old is he doctor?"

He continued nodding and smiled at him, "Good enough Holmes, I was hoping you'd be able to guess his age as well. Your rationale, rather than a deduction is highly appreciated and an observation like that is very keen for someone who has no medical background."

He pats his back and leads him to one of the chairs to sit down in the background, "Thank you, you may watch this chaos as long as you want. And don't cause any trouble."

Holmes sits down and intertwines his hands obediently, "Yes, thank you Sir. I'm sorry still, I truly am I was just curious."

He shook his head at his apology as something the boy shouldn't worry about as ties the knot on his loosening apron, "It's fine the students I have are as dead as this cadaver, and as long as you're not missing any classes right now you are free to wander. Are you not?"

Holmes held in a gasp by biting his lip, his eyes quickly averting the shock he knew was evident in his eyes, "No! No! I'm not, I promise, I'm actually done with my classes today Sir." He said way too hastily, he could smack his own face from how phony it was.

His eyebrow quirked, the greens and blues of his eyes darkening slightly, "Are you sure Mr. Holmes, because you know I can report you to your respective department. I do not tolera-"

He nearly jumped out of his seat to kneel down and beg for his mercy, but instead he jolts to stand up but sits down again, "Sir, I promise you. My morning and midday classes are done and if I wasn't those student prefects are on the way here on the search for me Sir."

The doctor clicked his tongue, "You're notorious then?"

Holmes shook his head side to side exaggeratingly, "Definitely not Sir!"

"Hah! Too defensive you make it hard for me to believe your innocence!"

"I mean-" Holmes protested rising once more out his seat but was stopped by the doctor when crossed his arms and looked at him suspiciously.

He pivoted and walked back to the cadaver and rose questions towards the students, which pushed back his brother's attempts in getting up the podium a hopeless attempt to retrieve his poor lost younger brother.

The classroom was shut silent from the tension and soon enough from boredom has started to reach a point, and so was the his expectations and willingness to even try, completely crestfallen and his pride hurt from the thought of how his experiences and sufficient knowledge of his field would aid him. But, alas he just can't quite seem to give up or even show the slightest form of irritation and disdain transparently.

He clapped his hands together and called upon his students attention to come forward to gather and observe, "Alright, everyone let's observe this other cadaver. Please come forward! Come one let's go! Let's go!" he waved his hands inward briskly, seemingly to chant them to engrossment and the whim of involvement.

The students knew the drill under the doctor's strict and tendency to be an impromptu as ever, no matter how much the sight of him poking an eyeball or grabbing a brain were unnerving and of course making your healthy and well prepared breakfast want to come out making you look away and miss the slight play of his hand can cost vital information and possibly failing a test.

They stood up one by one with a hunch heavy on their shoulders, mumbling and groaning as they dragged heavy books and notebooks, and sluggishly their pace was towards the podium. After the screeching commotion of the tables and chairs, they huddled around over the new sight of a table with something or perhaps someone covered over with a long white blanket from head to toe. Mumbling and whispering at each other; betting their guesses from the obvious whether it was a human body to narrowing it down to its gender and age. While the half of the classroom's crowd compressed shoving the other half away to the back, now stuck on their crammed places standing on chairs and craning their necks to see. The huddled crowd upfront almost made it almost impossible for anyone to penetrate through.

The doctor swivels around to organize them but just as he finishes up putting on his gloves and rolling up his sleeves, he takes a double look from what he clearly remembers as a chamber like classroom that he was used to, has seem to double rather what he has counted on his attendance papers and due to the carefully measured distances of their tables and chairs.

And finally he thought, he might have sparked their fascination back.

Students gaped and stood amazed by the skills the doctor demonstrated, a scalpel in hand drawn down swiftly to slice the subject's chest downwards, the clanging of the instruments and the ticking of the old clock were the only thing that seemed to go on. The whole class stood perplexed and in awe once more at his skill at display. The scalpel drawn down further a rather pale flaccid, and fat and someone who could've probably have died of a heart attack lain on the middle of the classroom being dissected on like it was nothing but secondary school dissection to the doctor. So collected and taken so lightly that he cuts on through with exact targets on what they've named the hardest parts swiftly; proving his reputation among the trifles among his fellow staff's ineffable twaddle that they surely just doubtful and unassertive of.

As if it couldn't get any more worse than the slowing down of time and organ digging, the doctor reaches and dips his hand in for the insides of the subject. Eliciting a unison of emitted disgusted gasping, shocked screeching and some students bumping onto their chairs tore the concentration momentarily from the doctor. They all stared at his hand wide-eyed, their expression contorted with horror.

He chewed on his lip, his concentration eminent on his eyebrows and complete disregard of his beading sweat. It felt bizarre, but he maintained his ground to the absolute outlandish setting and feeling of spectators and a young audience on top of it! Casually feeling the organs against his hand wasn't something for everyday to see, at least for these students. Dissecting was always dirty business, he slices down and a strong scent of bile diffuses into the air and a dozen of students is sent running towards the door pushing a side a table enough to cause to tip over and fall to the ground with a gunshot like blast causing him to jerk and involuntarily slash the glove he wore. The students who were courageously in front hurriedly took a stumble backward to get away and whilst turning their heads away feeling their own stomach turn, pushing each other as if they had anywhere other than the classroom to run away from its walls that were closing in on them.

Inappropriately elated, he could feel the sweat the beaded and trickled down his forehead and how his chest tightened to shallow his breathing. The bitter cold winter air from outside blew in to crawl through his skin, his hands went clammy and quivering. The doctor stopped and set down the scalpel aside, grabbing the edges of dissecting table to a lean and bow his head down from the suffocating feeling arise in his throat and that squeezed his chest, still hearing the ringing blast of the table.

The damn blasted chloroform.

But another thought lingered and nagged in his head.

_You ought not to give in John, you're just dizzy, it's nothing; probably dehydration and the lack of eating a proper meal. But It's alright. It's fine._

_I'm fine._

Breathe in, breathe out.

A male student plowed in through the buzzing crowd, approaching him and hesitantly putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, "Sir? Sir, are you alright? You look pale sir." The boy with brown cleanly combed hair asked with concern, pronouncing each words carefully and slowly.

Or was it mousy brown? He couldn't make it out, he was starting to feel a pang of lightheadedness make him sway and squint his eyes. He grumbled, shaking his head and gulping in his mouth dryly, "I just can't breath, plea-" he coughed pushing the boy's shoulder for the enclosing feeling he felt to lessen.

"Please, please, it's fine, I'm just-I'm just dizzy that's all. It's fine uh--mister?--" He trailed off, gesturing him to move away.

The boy blinked rapidly, surprised that he was being asked such a question, "Holmes, Sir. Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh," he whispered, trying to refocus his sight, "Holmes, thank you for your concern. Wait are you?" The doctor held both of his shoulders and looked at the grey-eyed boy at the back of the scene and back at the mousy haired one. He giving him a quick lopsided smile and didn't even bother for a conclusion, as he fought the lightening sensation take over his head.

The older Holmes immediately shot up his open hand to support the doctor, "Look, Sir, I think you should sit down for awhile, you don't quite look too good." He gave him back a puckered smile leading him back to the teacher's table and down to sit on his chair.

"Thank you, Holmes." The doctor thanked him sincerely, patting the boy's shoulder.

The boy jogged out of his sight and disappeared muttering about getting something as fast as he can. The boy returned with a glass of water in his hand, "Sir, here, I have some water." He bent down closely to him in eye level and told his fellow students to move away, open the windows further and seat on the floor instead.

The doctor took the water and drank the cool water down generously to replenish him. His ears buzzed, more students offered to help him that it felt overwhelming and he didn't know how to respond at the moment making him draw back into his chair all flushed up from the attention he was getting.

"Hey! Sir! Are we still gonna continue our lecture? Can you still do it?" An unknown male voice called out on him from the crowd.

The doctor let a tiny little smirk tug at the corners of his mouth, he gripped tightly on the rests of his chair for momentum as he stood up, "Of course, of course I can. Move back to your places please, thank you." He grunted and sighed the relief the water gave him.

_Take it easy John, loosen up a bit. There's nothing to rush about, nobody's dying and this London, this is a classroom full of children. Not a bloody and there is no Major watching._

_No it isn't. No._

"I--I can. Let's do it, now" He breathed in slowly the ceasing sickness, turning carefully to the boy who was surprisingly still next to him as to not not accidentally hit someone,

"Now, Holmes. Where were we?" The doctor breathed in puffing his chest, letting his thumb rest on the buckle of his belt. Appearing to recover self-connectedness and his power of authority, for him and for them. To make a fool of himself and forget with a puff his chest. 

"Sir but, I'm not the younger one seated over there? It must be a mistake, I'm sorry." The boy asked baffled with his hands open in front of him to whenever the unexpected comes, looking at him from head to toe.

"You two apologize a great deal, you two will be my assistant for today gentlemen." The doctor immediately answered, almost without emotion and a well processed though

Mycroft slowly turned to look at his younger brother with widened-eyes.

Sherlock stared back and shrugged his shoulders, stupefied as much as his brother was. 


End file.
